Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Laurel
Much to my surprise, Carrson is the one who takes me to see my father. On the way, he casually reminds me that from now on I’m not allowed to go out on my own.
“Me or one of my guards—Jackson, Stevenson, whoever—will always be with you,” he tells me, his tone relaxed, like it’s no big deal. Like this is just how things are.
Without thinking, I grab his arm. “Not Jackson. Please. Anyone but him.”
Carrson slows, his expression darkening. “Why? Did he do something?”
This pussy will be mine. I’ll add it to my collection.
Jackson’s words from the first night I saw Carrson ring like alarm bells in my head.
I remember the way he looked at me, like I was already claimed.
I can’t tell Carrson, though. I don’t trust him not to report it back to Jackson.
Or worse, laugh it off. If Jackson finds out I said anything, the target on my back will be too big to outrun. He would make a terrifying enemy.
I drop my gaze and shake my head.
Carrson tries again, pressing me, coaxing, but I don’t budge and eventually he gives up.
At least I don’t have to worry about Jackson today. It’s just Carrson and me, climbing the rickety wooden stairs to my second-floor apartment, the half-rotted planks groaning beneath our feet with every step.
I almost warn him about the handrail. Long ago, it must’ve been painted blue, but now the color flakes off in sharp-edged chunks, revealing wood underneath that’s splintered and mean.
When we moved in, I dragged my hand along it and wound up with a dozen dagger-like shards buried under my skin.
It took two hours and a pair of tweezers to dig them out.
The words, be careful, rise to my lips, but I swallow them back.
Let him touch it. Let the wood bite into his palms. Let him spend hours picking himself apart or, better yet, let those splinters fester. Let them turn into an infection that spreads up his arm like a red vine, winding tighter with every heartbeat.
It’s only fair.
Retribution for all the suffering he’s caused me.
Of course, he doesn’t touch the banister. Lucky, maybe. Or too smart for his own good.
My key is in my hand, the metal cold against my skin.
Briefly, I consider stabbing him in the eye with it.
If he’s blind, I could run away, grab my father, and move across the country, the world, if I have to, while Carrson waits in some sterile hospital for a corneal transplant, helpless and furious.
Like he’s read my mind, he sighs and plucks the key from my fingers, slipping it into his pocket. “Let me hold this for you,” he says with an overly sweet smile.
I hate him.
So much.
When we reach the door, I plant myself in front of it and press my back to the wood, blocking his way in. “You stay out here. I’ll check on Dad, grab what I need, and come right back out.”
“You don’t want me to see inside,” he says in that direct way he has, the one that has absolutely no regard for other people’s feelings. “You’re embarrassed.”
“No,” I deflect, scuffing my foot on the ground, unable to meet his gaze. I school my expression to be nonchalant. “That’s not it.”
As if I weigh no more than a feather, he picks me up by my arms and sets me aside. My mouth opens to protest, but it’s too late. The key is out, in the lock, and the door creaks open, revealing nothing but yawning blackness beyond.
Carrson steps in without a backward glance.
I hurry after him.
The stench hits me first, rotten food and vomit.
I panic. For one fractured heartbeat, I’m convinced all my fears have come true.
Dad, my only living relative, is dead.
I’m an orphan, left alone in Carrson’s clutches.
No one will ever save me.
“Dad! Dad!” This time I’m the one shoving Carrson aside as I rush into the room. I fumble along the wall until I feel the light switch. I flick it, but nothing happens. Dad probably forgot to pay the electricity bill again.
“Where are you?” I call out, my voice breaking. Fear rises, tightening every muscle as I brace for the worst.
There’s a click from behind followed by a flare of light. I turn to see Carrson with a lighter in his hand. The flame flickers like a snake’s tongue, casting shadows across his face. It makes him look like a jack-o’-lantern, hollow and glowing from within.
“Here,” he says, extending it. “Take this.”
Our fingers brush as he passes it to me. His skin is warm. Mine is ice.
Once I have the lighter, I hold it out in front of me, letting the glow lead the way as I move farther into the one-bedroom apartment I share with my father.
When we first moved in, Dad insisted I take the bedroom and he would have the couch. No amount of arguing would make him change his mind.
“It’s my fault we’re in this mess,” he’d said, nervously wringing his hands, but I knew he was lying, protecting my feelings.
It’s all my fault.
Every bad thing that’s happened to us traces right back to me.
“I’ll sleep on the couch. You take the bed,” I told him. Begged him, but night after night, he beat me to the couch. Not that it was hard, he barely left that thing. It became his kingdom. His grave. It’s where he eats, drinks, sleeps, and drinks some more.
Now, that couch comes into the bobbing circle of my light. It’s empty. Stained sheets lie on it, twisted and tangled, but no dad. I raise the flame, sweeping it toward the kitchen. Dirty dishes heaped in the sink, sour milk congealed on the counter. The trash is a mountain of crumpled beer cans.
Still no dad.
Heart hammering in my throat, vaguely aware that Carrson follows close behind, I approach the bedroom. The door is ajar. With my foot, I nudge it the rest of the way open.
Dad’s there, on his back, so still I’m convinced all over again that he’s dead.
As much as I’m to blame for this predicament, Carrson is too. If he hadn’t kept me away from my father, this never would have happened. In that moment I swear to myself that if my father is dead, then I’ll kill Carrson. I’ll murder the murderer if my father isn’t breathing.
Then Dad snores, one long, rattling breath, and a sob of relief punches out of me. I run into the room and drop to my knees, pressing myself to my father’s broad chest, tears spilling unchecked.
“Dad, are you okay?” I cry, not caring in the least that Carrson has entered the room. I barely notice when he takes the lighter from my trembling fingers and holds it up so I can see my dad with his swollen face, glassy eyes, and the red spider veins that march across his nose and cheeks.
“Laurel? Is that you?” Dad asks, his voice thready and faint.
“I’m here. It’s me.” I press my ear to his chest, just to hear the reassuring drumbeat of his heart.
“I was worried.”
“I know. I’m sorry I was gone. I’m back now.
I’m here and…” My voice breaks as I take in the ruin that was once my father.
The man who used to coach my youth softball team, the man who loved my mother so much that when she died something broke in him.
Irrevocably fractured. The man who still tried to limp along in life until I, in one fatal misstep, pushed him over the cliff and into a chasm so deep he can’t climb out of it.
“I’m here. I’ve brought help.” I glance at Carrson. His eyes aren’t on my father. They’re locked on me. I give the faintest nod. “You’re going to get better, okay? No more drinking. There are places that can fix this.”
“We can’t afford anything like that.” My dad struggles to sit up and fails.
“It’s okay.” I’m crying harder now, understanding the deal I’m about to make.
The bargain. My father’s soul for mine, but what other choice do I have?
What other decision can I make? Love is sacrifice, giving away parts of yourself so those you care about are safe and happy.
That’s all I want. For my father to have a chance to thrive.
If I have to make a deal with the devil to get that, then so be it.
It's one year.
How bad can it be?